Varanasi, India
I step onto the bank of the Ganges River and marvel at the architecture majestically standing before me. The palaces of kings who have come to die by these holy waters. Stairways rise and fall, a landscape of converging steps appearing carved into the architecture, narrowing to squeeze between the tiniest passageways, then stretching to reach the ends of each palace, cradling them along the steep banks.
The sun is about to rise in the violet plum sky. The fog lies thick upon the water. Colored wooden boats hug the shoreline in a sleepy sway with the current as it leads each partner along in its watery waltz. A cove of steps leading directly into the river guide those seeking purification for their sins. I watch the men standing waist deep in the water dip their hands to draw up leaky cupfuls to their lips.
We continue along past priests and monks in prayerful meditation. Piles of ash are swept into a woven basket and sifted through the waters. Purification by fire. Bodies are brought to the river’s edge twenty four hours a day to be burned in order to release the souls trapped within. Hundreds of bodies each day. Throughout the night, we hear the chanting processions of death intermittently carried passed our window.
The sun continues to warm the day. Goats mingle past stacks of wood piled stories high against the sides of buildings, the typical human body requiring 250 kilograms of wood to fully burn. Smoke rises from a burning pile before me. There are no women among the mourners. The souls must not be disturbed by agitated cries or they will be trapped in torment for eternity.
A strange eriness settles over me. We will all lay down our lives for something. We will all face the eternal unknown as breath departs mortal bodies and flesh and bone return to dust. I suppose the question is what are we willing to lay down our lives for?
The mysterious melody lingers in my mind, serenaded over me the night before as we walked beneath the moonlight, three wooden flutes and a melancholy voice. The song of two lovers, separated by the great depths of the Ganges. What great loss.
Oh… how Varanasi now reminds me of great loss as well.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… Where men defile you with their eyes, young boys with their hands. Where skulls rest in stacks beside sadhu worshipers of death. Where the weight of spiritual oppression is borne in a form unlike the principalities that exist over our nation.
I’m quickly shaken out of my spiritual lethargy, realizing the grace of God to open my eyes to what is around me. I press deeper into prayer, seeking the LORD and His purposes for us here. Aware of my human limitations, I press even deeper through fasting, seeking discernment and movement in the spiritual realm, deliverance and protection (Daniel 9).
We set out on a day of adventure, ending up in the back of a tuktuk with an older Muslim man dressed in a smooth white button up shirt. He is gently wiping tears from my eyes with his hankerchief, softly speaking over me, “My daughter, my daughter, don’t cry. My daughter, don’t cry, you are strong. My daughter, don’t cry, I am your papa.” The tears streaming down my face are not tears of sorrow. It is simply his kindness that has overwhelmed me.
In his presence, I feel washed in complete and utter peace. It is no longer him speaking, but my Papa, my Father in heaven. He speaks powerfully over me again as he continues to wipe my tears, “My daughter do not cry, I am your Papa. My daughter do not cry, you are strong. My daughter do not cry, you are strong because I your Father am strong.” Completely overwhelmed by the presence of God, I ask if he knows Jesus. He doesn’t respond directly, but answers the question of religion.
I ask if Jesus has visited him in his dreams, but again he does not answer the question. He is a devout Muslim man who seeks to do right by people for the glory of Allah. Oh, but what would this man’s life look like in the hands of the Almighty God? In this moment, I realize how effortlessly God can use anyone to speak through. A Muslim man, using words that divide between soul and spirit, words that pierce my heart.
I tell him I believe Jesus is pursuing him. I tell him to start looking for Jesus to reveal Himself. He just smiles and wipes my tears. He accompanies us on our journey. I wonder what God has in store for him.
Your kingdom come, Your will be done. Lead us in what You have ordained for us to walk in. What divine deposit, what holy exchange have You planned for us here?
We explore the marble white curves of the Taj Mahal, inlaid with ornately carved stonework. We sit on the cool marble floors to escape the oppressive heat blanketing us outside. We ride in a cart attached to a camel so large I would need a ladder to climb atop its back. We are surrounded by beauty but I can’t quite shake a tension in my spirit. I’ve been praying for hours, yet somehow can only form the simple prayer, Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
He guides my steps. He is the one who leads me beside still waters, who restores my soul. It is He who leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though…not even if…even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for He is with me (Psalm 23). We begin our return journey. I drift off to sleep in the hot night air as semitrucks barrell down the road beside us.
I am awakened by the abrupt force and jolting noise of a loud crash. Slowly gaining awareness, unable to assess the seriousness of injuries, we are immediately confronted with what could be the worst. Swept up in ambulances, subject to the language barrier and the complete mercy of the locals who have surrounded us, we are taken to bare buildings and hospitals that reveal the lack of care we are about to receive. Crimson stained gurnies, dried pools and puddles on the floor. A man laying beside me turns to look into my eyes. I attempt a smile as I look into his face. He locks his eyes on mine as his lips release his last breath. We are surrounded by death.
We begin to fill the air with truth. He is good. He is sovereign. He is faithful. In the midst of chaos, a peace pervades. On the lips of each person throughout the day, I hear the Spirit of the LORD, He has a plan and a purpose even in this.
Our Muslim friend observes us carefully, watching on as we pour our prayers over one another, over the people in the room, over him. Over ten hours provide numerous opportunities to display the hope we abide in and profess. Seeds planted in dark, yet richly watered soil.
He remains with us till the end. He accompanies us back to our hostel. He visits us the next day to check on our injuries. He blesses us with a Muslim blessing, a father’s blessing. He meets us at the bus station to meet his family and see us off on our journey out of India to Nepal.
I still wonder all that transpired spiritually that day, what divine deposit, what holy exchange took place that can only be spiritually discerned. I wonder what took root in that man’s heart that is waiting to spring up.
I pray over that man’s life, that a spirit of wisdom and revelation in the knowledge of God would fall upon him and consume him, that the eyes of his heart would be enlightened to see and perceive the truth of the Gospel, that the incorruptible seed planted in his heart would take root and produce a crop one hundred fold what was planted, that his spirit would drink in the rain of the Holy Spirit often falling on it.
Will you take a moment and pour out a holy prayer over this man’s life along with me? Oh that sweet incense would rise before the throne on his behalf until his name is securely written in the Lamb’s book of life…
Thank you for your prayers for this man’s soul. And for your prayers that have covered me. I am not on this journey alone, you accompany my every step.
